Chapter 4
1119 Words
Luca’s POV
We took over half the bar. Empire FC loud. Beer on the tables, music too high, voices higher.
Tino was already on his third whiskey, telling the same joke about the goal to the same three people. The rest of the guys didn’t care. We’d won. That was enough.
I sat back in the corner booth, bottle in hand. My shirt still smelled like the field. Sweat, grass, cold air.
Coach Ramos stopped by our table. “Good work tonight,” he said to me.
I nodded. “It was a team win.”
He smiled like he knew I didn’t mean it. “Enjoy the night.”
He left.
Tino slid into the seat next to me. “You gonna sit here brooding all night?”
“I’m drinking.”
“You’re sulking.”
“I’m thinking.”
He grinned. “Same thing with you.”
“Yeah right.”
“But you do know you can speak to me anytime, man,” Tino pushed. “We are friends and we got to have each other’s backs.”
“It’s not serious, man.” I lied.
He shrugged, and attended to his beer. Talking and laughing with the other guys, while I kept on brooding.
The bar was packed. Strangers kept trying to get pictures with me. I smiled when I had to, but my head wasn’t in it. Every time the camera flashed, I saw another flash. Another night. Another street.
Bronx, five years ago. My father’s voice telling me to keep moving. Sirens. Blood that wouldn’t stop coming. I took a drink to wash the memory out. It didn’t work.
Tino slapped my shoulder. “Come on, man. We’re alive. We’re rich. We play ball for a living. Smile.”
I tried. I failed.
Half past midnight, I stepped outside for air. The cold hit me like a punch. The street was quiet except for a taxi rolling by slow. I leaned against the brick wall, looking up at the sky.
Footsteps behind me. Light ones.
I turned. Nobody there.
Then I saw it—tucked under the wiper of my car parked down the block. A folded piece of paper.
I walked over, pulled it free. Plain white. Inside, one sentence written in neat black ink:
THE DE LUCAS DON’T FORGET.
No signature.
My chest tightened. I looked around again. The street was empty.
I crushed the note in my fist and shoved it in my jacket pocket.
The person f*****g with me is going to pay if I get my hands on him or her.
Back inside, Tino saw my face and frowned. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Bull. I’ve seen that look before.”
“It’s nothing.”
He didn’t push, but I knew he wanted to.
We left the bar an hour later. Some of the guys went on to another place. I told Tino I was heading home.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Alright. But call me if—”
“I’m fine.”
The drive home was quiet. City lights smeared against the car windows. I kept replaying the note in my head. The name. The message.
De Luca.
I hadn’t heard it in years. Not from anyone who didn’t mean trouble.
The elevator ride to the penthouse felt longer than the whole drive. When I got in, I went straight to the kitchen. Poured a glass of water. Tried to clear my head.
It didn’t clear.
I took the note out again. Flattened it on the counter. The handwriting was clean, steady. No rush. Whoever wrote it wasn’t scared of me.
I thought about burning it. I didn’t. I slid it into the back of my desk drawer.
Then I heard it—three short knocks at the door.
It was almost two a.m.
I crossed the room slow. Looked through the peephole.
Nobody there.
I opened the door anyway.
An envelope lay on the floor. Black this time.
Inside, a photo. Me at the bar tonight, in the corner booth. Tino laughing next to me. My head turned, looking right at the camera.
On the back, in the same black ink:
YOUR FATHER OWED BLOOD. YOU OWE MORE.
I sat down hard in the chair. My hand tightened on the photo until the edges bent.
I didn’t sleep. I sat at the window until the sky went pale.
The city looked the same as it always did. It didn’t care about my ghosts.
Around eight, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I answered. “Yeah?”
A voice I didn’t know. Calm. Low. “You have visitors soon.”
“Who is this?”
“They smile when they lie.”
Click. Line dead.
I stayed there, phone in hand, listening to the silence in my own apartment.
Then I saw it—down on the street, a black car parked across from the building. Tinted windows. Engine off.
It didn’t move.
Neither did I.
At ten, the media director called. “Luca, your new PR manager wants to meet you today. Eleven o’clock.”
I almost said no. Then I thought about the note. The car. The photo.
“Fine,” I said.
“What should I tell her?”
“Tell her I don’t like strangers. And she should stop pestering me?”
I hung up.
I looked back at the window. The black car was gone.
But I knew it hadn’t really left.
I stared at the black envelope on the counter. The words burned in my head.
Enough.
I picked up the phone and called the NYPD. Gave them my name, my address, told them about the notes and the photo.
The officer on the line was calm. “Mr. Romano, we’ll send someone to collect the evidence. We’ll also put a patrol in your area for a few days. If you see anything, call us right away.”
“Whoever this is, they know my past,” I said.
“We’ll look into it. You’re not alone in this.”
Not alone. That was a joke. But I thanked him anyway.
When I hung up, I felt lighter. Like I’d handed some of the weight to someone else. The photo was still in my drawer, but it didn’t seem to glare at me as much.
I made coffee. Put on music. Stood at the window, watching the street below. No black car today. No shadows that looked like trouble.
My shoulders eased. Maybe the cops would find whoever was playing games. Maybe this would be over before it really started.
I even let myself smile.
But the thing about feeling safe? It never lasts.
- Writer
